side the Dryad, to whom he
nestled close. The night was excessively hot, and the morning found a
pallid lady snatching a belated nap on the lounge under the far window,
while Njal remained in proud possession of the bed.

Joy-of-Life thereafter insisted on leashing him at night in the lower
hall, where we would spread out for him the Thunder-and-Lightning Rug,
an embarrassing gift for which we had never before been able to find a
use. There he would contentedly take his post, the conscious guardian
of the house, his white and yellow in vivid contrast to the black and
scarlet of the rug, and his blue-figured Japanese bowl of water within
easy reach. This disposition of our problem worked both well and ill,
since Njal found distraction from his diminishing attacks of nostalgia
in trying with his sharp white teeth the toughness of the leashes which
succeeded one another in costly succession. But as a watch dog he took
himself most seriously, though not greatly to the furtherance of our
repose. From the depths of slumber he would leap up with a dynamic
bark, accompanied by a bass growl, as if there were two of him,
spinning around and around upon his leash, until we all rose from our
beds, grasping electric torches, and sped downstairs to behold a fat
beetle scuttling off across the floor or to hear the receding scamper
of a mouse behind the wainscot. On the night before the Fourth,
outraged by such a racket as he had never heard before, our
ten-months-old protector succeeded in making more noise than all the
horns, torpedoes and firecrackers in our patriotic neighborhood.

We celebrated the national holiday by changing his name, which sounded
in the mouth of the mocker too much like _miaul_, to that of the
shining hero of the _Volsunga Saga_. Joy-of-Life hesitated a little
lest the Lady of Cedar Hill should deem her own Norse hero, Burnt Njal,
"gentle and generous," treated with discourtesy, but I pleaded that in
all likelihood our home would never again be blessed with anything so
young and so yellow, so altogether fit to bear the honors of the Golden
Sigurd. The collie readily accepted his new name, but never forgot the
old, and even to the last year of his sunny life, if the word Njal were
spoken, however softly, would glance up with bright recognition.

Sigurd bore himself through that first July with such civility and
dignity that we did not dream how homesick he really was,--that
towering puppy, who looked absurdly